


The Girl Without a Past

by JohnAmendAll



Series: Fabulous Investigations [2]
Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-06 00:25:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnAmendAll/pseuds/JohnAmendAll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She'd stolen her heart — but could she be trusted? Isobel Watkins's new business partner was not at all what she'd expected. Beautiful and outspoken, Zoë Heriot was also the perfect image of a woman long thought dead. But was she a schemer in search of a fortune, or an innocent caught up in circumstances she didn't understand? Someone knew the truth, someone who didn't want Zoë to learn too much. Only Isobel could help her - but could she overcome her own suspicions?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Girl Without a Past

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the unconventionalcourtship romance-novel ficathon, based on modifying prompt 64 ('A Stolen Heart' by Candace Camp).

"Are you nearly finished?" Zoë Heriot asked. "Only I've still got last month's accounts to reconcile." 

"Just one more." Isobel Watkins peered through the viewfinder. "Big smile, please." The shutter clicked. "That's perfect. You can get changed now." 

"And about time, too." Zoë picked her way through the barely-organised chaos of Isobel's studio, and disappeared behind the battered corner screen. "I don't care how sexy you think this stuff looks, it's all very impractical. If I never have to wear PVC again, it'll be too soon." 

"Universal Plastics is paying us good money for these pictures." 

"Girlie calendars," Zoë said with distaste. "I thought you were supposed to be a feminist. But we probably need the money. Your books are in such a mess the bailiffs could turn up tomorrow and I wouldn't have a clue if they had a valid claim or not." 

"Well, get on with them, then." During the conversation, Isobel had been dismantling her tripod, and now began to rewind the film. 

"I'd get on quicker if you left me to sort out our finances." Zoë emerged once more, now clad in one of her usual trouser suits. This one was sky-blue. 

"And if I don't have any pictures to sell, we won't have any finances at all," Isobel riposted triumphantly. "If you want me, I'll be in the dark room." 

Zoë turned at the door. "I'll be in that horrible cupboard you call our office." 

She blew Isobel a kiss, and was gone. 

⁂

Alone in the dark room, Isobel carefully hung up the prints from the afternoon's photographic session. All around her were pictures of herself — looking completely fab, of course — and Zoë. It was a funny thing, but she couldn't quite bring herself to meet those huge eyes. In the red light, there was something about Zoë's elfin appearance that nagged at Isobel. She tried to pin it down, squinting at one picture, then another, with half-closed eyes. The hair was all right, but something about the rest of Zoë's face... 

Isobel shook her head, finished up her work, and came out into the studio. Not for the first time, or the tenth, she sighed at the clutter and resolved that tomorrow she'd make a real effort to sort things out. By way of a token gesture, she scooped up an armful of rejected prints and dumped them onto the nearest chair. They fanned out, and once more she found Zoë's face staring up at her. 

Isobel continued to pace, ostensibly tidying but in practice doing no more than rearranging the debris, as one might shake a kaleidoscope. Her foot caught a bulky envelope, and her vague anxieties were swept aside as she recognised the address. This should have been posted _weeks_ ago! 

She hurried up the stairs, in search of Zoë. Halfway up, she paused; the phrase 'weeks ago' seemed to be rattling around in her head. Then she resumed walking, slowly, but with an abstracted air. Yes, that was what she'd been thinking of. She'd need to check first, of course, and that meant waiting until Zoë was out of the way for a few minutes. Waiting wasn't something Isobel was good at, but if things went the way she hoped, it wouldn't be necessary. 

The 'office' was barely large enough to hold two of them and the desk they shared. At the desk, Zoë was patiently transcribing figures onto carefully-ruled foolscap. She looked up at the sound of Isobel's footstep, and held up a hand. After about half a minute, she set down her pen. 

"Do you want something?" she asked. 

"Sorry," Isobel said. "I was tidying the studio—" 

Zoë made an uncouth noise indicative of disbelief. 

"—and I found this. We need to post it as soon as possible." 

As she caught sight of the envelope, Zoë's eyes widened. "Isobel, you said you'd posted that last month!" 

"I thought I had," Isobel said. 

"I wonder what it was you _did_ post, you dizzy damsel." Zoë extracted a book of stamps from the desk. "I hope it wasn't anything from our private collection. That would be very hard to explain, and why aren't these stamps sticking?" 

"You haven't licked them." 

"Self-adhesive ones would be much more hygienic." Zoë daintily licked two stamps and affixed them to the envelope. "I'll take this to the post office at once." 

"I could do that," Isobel suggested, hoping that Zoë wouldn't take her up on the offer. 

"Thanks, but I want to be sure it's actually been sent this time." Zoë tucked the envelope under her arm, and jumped to her feet. "I'll be back in twenty minutes or so." 

Left alone in the office, Isobel ran her finger along the row of dusty box files, and, by standing on tiptoe, was able to retrieve the one she sought. She set it on the desk, opened it, and flipped through the photographs and press cuttings. She was sure it was here somewhere... yes. Normally she only had eyes for the picture on the front of the cutting: an action shot of a lifeboat being launched in high seas, it had been one of her first successful sales. But now, she turned it over, and looked at the fragment of article on the back. 

'Where is Sue Craig?' the headline read. 

Isobel skimmed what was left of the article, extracting what facts she could. Susan Craig had been an up-and-coming artist, who'd disappeared on a trip to Germany. At the time the article was written, the fruitless search for her had lasted for three weeks. The journalist also thought it worth mentioning that, in the days leading up to her disappearance, Miss Craig had been seen about London in the company of a junior minister— 

It was at this point that the remainder of the article had been lost to Isobel's scissors. Whatever else the journalist had known or guessed about Susan Craig was gone. 

Hurriedly, Isobel jotted down the date of the newspaper, and only then allowed herself to take a proper look at the picture that accompanied the article. It certainly wasn't up to her standard — snatched hurriedly outside a West End theatre, it showed a young woman, holding the arm of someone who'd been cropped out of the shot. 

There was a lens on the desk, part of a dismantled enlarger. Isobel brought it to bear on the girl's head. The hair certainly wasn't the same — paler, probably blonde, and styled differently — and the expression wasn't one Isobel could place. But the face itself was completely unmistakeable. In all respects that mattered, Susan Craig and Zoë Heriot were identical, to the last feature. 

⁂

By that evening, when Isobel and Zoë were dining in a suitably fashionable local bistro, Isobel still hadn't made up her mind what to do. Once she'd confirmed her hunch, she'd tried to remember what she could about the Susan Craig affair, which wasn't much. Even at the time, the press coverage had been strangely muted; thinking about it with the benefit of hindsight, Isobel couldn't make up her mind whether some figure in authority had been suppressing pertinent facts. One thing she was sure of, though: From that day to this, Susan Craig had never been seen again. 

"Did you hear back from Sterling Cooper?" Zoë asked, pushing her empty plate slightly away. 

"What? Oh, yes. They're going to use those shots we did of you in Carnaby Street, for a campaign in the _New York Journal_." 

"To advertise what?" 

"Toothpaste." 

"Probably with some strapline about how it can whiten even a British girl's teeth." Zoë shook her head. "I still can't get used to having my face all over the papers... Isobel, are you all right?" 

"I'm fine." 

"You went quite pale then." 

"Someone walking over my grave, I suppose." _Or Susan Craig's,_ Isobel thought. Worrying implications were flooding into her mind. If there had been people interested in Miss Craig's disappearance, whatever would they think when they saw Zoë's face in the papers? As she glanced around the restaurant, she began to wonder if the other diners were watching them, or if she was imagining things. 

She finished her meal in nervous silence, and fidgeted until the waiter brought their bill. Zoë glanced through the list, as if mentally deducting the prices from their dwindling stock of petty cash. 

"Isobel," she said. 

Isobel jumped, guiltily. "What?" 

"There's a business card here as well as the bill." 

"Someone trying to pick us up, I expect." Isobel relaxed slightly. "Does it have any sort of message?" 

Zoë turned the card over in her hands. "No. It just says 'M9' and a phone number. How odd." 

All of Isobel's fears rushed back. She'd never heard of M9, but if they were in the business of slipping mysterious cards into people's restaurant bills, they couldn't be good news. "Let's settle up and get home," she said. 

Before they'd made it halfway to the door, it flew open. A man marched in who looked as if he'd been hewn from rock. His suit was cheap and ill-fitting, and he was carrying a bulky, tube-shaped weapon. 

"You two," he said. "You're coming with me. And I don't want any trouble." By way of emphasis, he raised the weapon to his shoulder. 

"That's a bazooka!" Zoë exclaimed. "You can't let that off in here!" 

"Then come quietly and I won't." 

Raising their hands above their heads, Zoë and Isobel approached the man. He seemed to relax slightly as they came up to him. 

"Right," he said. "Outside and into the—" 

What he had unfortunately overlooked was that while Zoë's hands might have been above head height for her, that brought them dangerously close to bazooka height for him. With a swift leap, she'd closed the distance between them, caught his right arm, and thrown him to the ground. Several tables went flying, their patrons jumping to their feet. The bazooka rolled across the floor and disappeared into the spreading chaos. 

"Run!" Zoë said, catching Isobel by the hand. The two made for the kitchen, barging past a hapless waiter and sending the gateau he was carrying flying. A quick sprint, dodging an astonished chef and his attendants, and they were in a noisome alley at the back of the building. 

"That man was after us," Zoë said. "And he wasn't working alone. There were more of them out there." 

Isobel debated with herself whether to bring the whole Sue Craig business up. Instead, she said "We need to get away from here." 

"I agree. And I don't think we can go home. If Torchwood knew we were at the restaurant they'll have the house under surveillance." 

"Torchwood?" Isobel repeated, following Zoë down the alley. 

"Well, I don't know it's them, but from what I've read there weren't that many organisations who'd be stupid enough to try and kidnap two people from a crowded restaurant, with a bazooka." 

"You mean there's some gang of spies after us? Zoë, we need to get help! We should talk to... I don't know. The police, or MI5, or something." 

"I don't think that's a good idea," Zoë said, as they emerged onto a busy street. "If I remember my history right, in this decade the police are mostly corrupt and the head of MI5's a Russian mole." 

"You're joking. No-one even knows who the head of MI5 is." 

The words "Sir John Halstead" popped out of Zoë's mouth, with seemingly no intervention from her higher thought processes. 

"How do you _know_ all this? And you threw a man twice your size across the restaurant. Zoë, you're not some kind of secret agent yourself, are you?" 

"No, I'm not. I learned judo in self-defence class. I'll teach you the basics, if you like. And all the rest of it I learned in school. Isobel, you know I'm not a spy." 

Isobel put her hand on Zoë's shoulder. "Promise me." 

Zoë turned, and looked her in the eye. "I promise." 

"Does the name 'Susan Craig' mean anything to you?" 

Isobel could swear Zoë's expression was one of honest bafflement. "Never heard it before. Why?" 

"Well, she—" 

Before Isobel could complete her sentence, a taxi had mounted the pavement, headed directly for them. She grabbed Zoë and dived behind a pillarbox; as the taxi ploughed into it, the two sprinted away down the street. 

"OK," Zoë gasped, once they'd run as far as they could. "We can't go home and we can't wander about London. What do we do?" 

"Get out of London," Isobel said. "Take the first train we find, from whichever station's nearest." 

Zoë nodded. "That'll be Paddington." 

They scurried away into the night. 

⁂

In their hurriedly-booked compartment on the Cornish Riviera Express, Isobel lay on her side, listening to Zoë's peaceful breathing from the upper bunk, and tried in vain to sleep. The problem was, if Zoë really was a spy working under a false identity, this was just the way she'd behave, wasn't it? And when it came down to it, Isobel knew nothing about Zoë except what Zoë herself had told her. She couldn't, of her own knowledge, prove that the girl lying above her _wasn't_ the missing artist that everybody was looking for. 

That everybody was looking for her was beyond doubt: they'd had two further encounters while trying to catch the train. A suave, fashionable young gentleman with a florid moustache had introduced himself as Henry Pearce of Department S, pressed his business card into their hands, and repeatedly insisted that if Isobel or Zoë was ever in trouble, at any time of the day or night, they should call him at once. Having extricated themselves from his clutches, they'd promptly run straight into an artistic fellow by the name of Haydon, from whose enthusiastic friendship they'd had to escape by climbing out of the window in the ladies' lavatory. 

Isobel closed her eyes and tried to convince herself that this was all some gigantic misunderstanding. If Zoë really was mixed up in some kind of dubious conspiracy, why would she let herself be photographed and splashed across the national press? 

_Because she doesn't remember it herself?_ a nagging voice in the back of her head suggested. _What about those first few days after she moved in? Her head was all over the place — nightmares and everything. She even said she'd forgotten something important, didn't she?_

_But I knew her as Zoë before Miss Craig disappeared._

_Maybe she was already operating a double identity. Talk to the police, Isobel Watkins. Or the Brigadier. He'll know what to do._

_Zoë doesn't want me to._

_Really?_ Isobel's doubts riposted triumphantly. _And why do you think that might be?_

Though Isobel could have sworn she hadn't slept, the next thing she knew the dim, greyish predawn light was shining through the window. Above her, Zoë's regular breathing was unchanged. As Isobel blinked the sleep from her eyes, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end and her blood turned to ice. There was a figure leaning over her berth. It reached out towards her, and she let out a sharp, involuntary cry. 

"What?" Zoë's voice mumbled, overhead. 

"Who's there?" Isobel called, her voice still full of tension. 

The figure reached out to the wall switch, and the lights came on. The newcomer was small and lithe, wearing a black catsuit that left no doubt of her gender. A balaclava covered her head, and a small pistol was all too obviously visible in her right hand. 

"My name's Susan Craig," the intruder said. She pulled the balaclava off, revealing cropped blonde hair and a face that was the twin of Zoë's, set in an expression of steely determination. Icy blue-grey eyes met Isobel's, and held them. "Special agent for M9. And you two really don't know how much trouble we're all in."

**Author's Note:**

> Sue Craig was Wendy Padbury's character in [Freewheelers](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Freewheelers). I think from her point of view, this story is set a few years later than her time on the show.


End file.
